In a Lurch

No. He didn't have to take this. They had left him in a lurch for the last time. It was their turn now.

He began making preparations. Files needed to be backed up onto his flash drive. Check. A few individuals needed to be informed. (He didn't really want to screw everyone, after all.) Check. Certain emails needed to be backed up to his personal account. Check.

Uncheck.

He hadn't realized how many emails he had to sort through.

He decided it might be a good idea to take a moment and actually think this through before he took any actions that couldn't be undone.

He closed his eyes.

The garrison slowly removed the blade from his captain's back, his hand shaking as the weight of what he had done settled on him.

The other three garrisons and the first officer all instinctively set their weapons on him, ready to execute a command that wouldn't come from a man who could no longer give it. The garrison took their moment's hesitation as an opportunity to try to undo their captain's dying action.

He desperately pressed the purple button on the wall over and over again, beckoning the ship's automated to voice to respond, but it could not.

Why had he killed the captain? Why would he do that? It had been as if something stronger than himself dragged his blade against his will. The captain had commanded the Keresian Protocol, but he had truly been the one to initiate it. Maybe he could still undo it.

The lack of response from the ship's computer was the first sign that it was too late.

The stirring of Captain Hunter's body was the second.

The captain's lifeless body was slowly rising to its feet, its eyes filled with darkness. "Keresian Protocol One," it said in a voice that sounded less like Captain Hunter and more like the unresponsive computer, "has been initiated. Prepare to fall."

"No!" The garrison shook his captain's body. "You can't do this!"

"Keresian Protocol Two initiating in three . . . "

"Captain, stop this!"

" . . . two . . . "

The garrison pointed his blade at the captain's throat, knowing it was futile.

" . . . one . . . "

"Elements defend us," the garrison said, accepting his fate.

"Keresian Protocol Two initiated. Proceeding to Keresian Protocol Three."

The ship suddenly lurched and the garrison felt as though the entire universe was slipping away.

Somewhere on the lower decks, a creature with the appearance of a man named Hemming and the voice of a man named Corson looked down at the lifeless bodies of his respective doppelgangers and smiled as the ship lurched.

The garrison clenched his fists, hoping beyond hope that somehow this would work out.

He opened his eyes.

Screw waiting. If he thought through it, he'd never do it.

He quickly skimmed his emails, looking for anything he thought he might want at a later date. There wasn't much, but one in particular caught his eye as it showed its face. Quite literally.

A face with which he was becoming all too familiar was staring back at him.

He quickly jotted down the phone number at the bottom of the email and shoved it in his pocket.

He then quickly wrote the letter that would change his life, grabbed all his personal belongings from his desk, and marched down to his absent supervisor's office.

Now they would learn what it felt like to be left in a lurch.

In the Modern Age

He stared at the wall in disbelief as he slowly returned the phone to its base. He had learned over the course of his time at his job that it never rained until it flooded. Today was a flood.

He had come to expect virtually no respect from the higher ups, but this was going a bit too far. Did she ever intend to tell him that she was gone? He had thought that his supervisor leaving town for a week and thus leaving him in charge of the three upcoming events that weekend would be something she would have told him about. But, alas, no. He got to find out about it by calling to ask he about something else entirely and hearing her answering machine informing him that she would be gone until the following Monday.

In the modern age, what was her excuse? She could have called and left a message on his machine at work. She could have sent him an email or a text message. She could have left a sticky note somewhere! There was no excuse for not telling him. None.

He laid his head down on his desk feeling the weight of his insomnia dragging him down. He really wasn't in any kind of condition to be running events especially with two days notice.

He closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes slowly, raising his arms and letting out his breath.

"Most resplendent, he-that-learneth-from-the-self."

He smiled as he relaxed the tensed muscles in his legs. "Thanks, Corson."

Corson smiled back at him. As a highly proficient sorcerer, there was no way of accurately estimating Corson's age. He looked to be in his fifties, but Haze was quite confident he was centuries older than that. "We here shallst progress, hence." Where his manner of speech came from was anyone's guess. Maybe if you live too long your brain fries.

Haze picked up a towel from the table next to him and wiped the sweat dripping from his face. "Great. What's next?"

Without a word, Corson turned and left the room. The last two months of training had taught Haze that he was meant to follow.

As they entered the next room, Corson turned suddenly and fired a barrage of green flaming orbs at his apprentice. Haze dropped instinctively into his defensive stance and raised his arms. Time seemed to slow for him as the orbs drew closer. He fought the urge to phase out and let them pass. Corson would never allow him to get away with that. Instead, behind his back, he twisted the fingers of his left hand into one of the mystic signs he had been taught and waved his right defensively. The orbs came to a complete stop as the rest of time returned to normal.

Corson smiled, raised his right hand, clenched it into a fist and the orbs popped coating Haze in their slimy yellow contents.

Haze chuckled. "You're a real dick sometimes, did you know that?"

"This one hath been apprised thusly. In multiplicity."

Haze grinned as he pulled his left hand out from behind his back and allowed his left arm to phase slightly. Purple energy surged down his smoky arm and launched itself at Corson. The sorcerer attempted to raise a defense, but the spell moved too quickly. The purple energy struck him squarely between the eyes.

Corson collapsed as his skin changed from its naturally dark brown tone to the vibrant purple of the spell that had struck him. Haze chuckled as realization dawned on his friend.

"Alack, he-that-hath-learned-and-surpassed, the self retains a lacuna from thee." He bowed his head respectfully.

"Thank you, old friend," said Haze as he closed his eyes and lowered his head in return.

He opened his eyes.

Letting out a breath, he pulled out a pad of paper and began writing out everything that needed to be taken care of for the coming events. As the list of things that needed to be accomplished in the next two days grew, he felt tears burning just behind his eyes.

No excuse. She had no excuse for doing this to him in the modern age.

He was really in no condition to be running events, but he didn't really have a choice at this point.

. . . or did he?

Non-Linear Story Telling

He was so excited to be free of work for a few days.  He quickly decided once again that whoever invented weekends deserved to live in one perpetually.  Then he realized that, as far as he knew, it was just as likely that at one time, everyone lived in a perpetual weekend, then some jerk came along and invented the work week.  He quickly decided that whoever invented the work week deserved to live in one perpetually.

As he was pulling into the parking lot of the theater, he felt his pocket buzzing.  He quickly found a spot, parked his car, and pulled his phone out of his pocket.  "Hello?"

"Hey.  We just got to the theater."

"Me too," he responded with less enthusiasm than he actually felt.

"We'll save you a seat if you grab the popcorn."

"Deal," he said with a bit more enthusiasm than he actually felt.

"Sweet."  His sister hung up.

He loved spending time with his siblings and he had really been looking forward to seeing this movie.  The thought briefly crossed his mind that he needed to make sure they paid him back for the popcorn, but some quick calculations reminded him just how pointless balancing a relationship financially with someone you would be around for years.  It all worked out eventually.

He got into the theater, said hi to his brother, sister, and sister-in-law, passed the popcorn around, then took his seat and settled in to watch the previews.

He stifled a yawn as he felt the week catching up with him.

He leaned over to his sister and whispered, "Kick me when the movie starts."  She smiled and gave him a thumbs up, so he settled back into his chair.

And he closed his eyes.

"Wake up, dummy!"

He slowly opened his eyes and stood up.  "I'm up," he said drowsily.  "I'm up."

As the world came into focus, he made out that Sharpshot was sitting across the cabin from him, cleaning the barrel of an unnecessarily large rifle.  "Did you have a nice nap, princess?"  He waved her off, trying to ignore her typical condescension.

He walked to the front of the plane to talk to the pilot.  "How far are we from the drop zone?"

The pilot consulted a dial in front of him.  "Looks like you've got about two minutes."

He nodded to the pilot before returning to his seat, retrieving a long scimitar on the way.  As he sat down and began sharpening, he could see Sharpshot growing ever more irritated at him.  He knew she hated the sound of him sharpening his sword and truly loved anything that gave him an opportunity to make her uncomfortable.

A red light began flashing at thirty seconds from the drop zone.  It was followed fifteen seconds later by a siren as the bay door opened.  Thirteen seconds after that, Sharpshot ran for the open door, passing the parachutes without a second glance, and leapt gracefully from the plane.  Three seconds later, a column of dark smoke followed her.

It didn't take long for Haze to catch up with his partner.  He surrounded her and began slowing her descent.  By the time they reached the ground, she landed so softly, even Primadame couldn't have heard her.

Hopefully neither could their target.

As he rematerialized next to Sharpshot, Haze took in the scene now surrounding them.  It was chaotic to say the least.  Some kind of hostage situation was going down and a huge squadron of police cars were lighting up the night.  The office building they had surrounded was dark save one window on the fourth floor.  When Sharpshot nodded at the window, Haze nodded back to her and approached an officer who had the air of authority about him.  A quick flash of his badge identifying him as a member of the League gave the two nexters all the power they needed to bypass the local authorities and fly straight up to the window.

As they got close to the fourth floor, Sharpshot casually shot out the illuminated window and Haze sat her down inside, heralded by a chorus of hostages' screams.

Then he saw her.

Melanie Menteur was standing in an open doorway across the room.

His heart sank.  He knew that a crawler was involved in the situation, and he had been trying his absolute best to mentally prepare himself for the inevitable moment that his and Sharpshot's hunt would lead to an encounter with his old flame.  But he wasn't prepared.

Not in the least.

Melanie smiled at him and began crossing the room.  Before she had taken two steps, however, Sharpshot had drawn the rifle she had been cleaning on the plane and trained it on her head.  Melanie's smile only faded briefly as she slowly raised her hands over her head.  "It's nice to see you too, Sharps."

"You don't get to play to nice anymore, bitch," Sharpshot responded bitterly.

Haze realized what was happening a half-second after Sharpshot had pulled the trigger.  He dove forward, dematerializing slightly, trying to slow the bullet enough that Melanie would be alright.

Old habits died hard.

And so did Melanie.

He hadn't reacted fast enough to save the crawler.  As he solidified next to her, he could practically feel Sharpshot's eyes boring into the back of his skull.  He didn't care.  He held Melanie's lifeless body in his arms and sobbed softly.  His partner let out a frustrated sigh.

"You do remember what she did to you, don't you?"

Realization dawned on him.  What would Nash do when he heard about this?

He felt a sense of purpose flow through him again.  They couldn't let that stop them.  They had a mission, and today was a victory.  Zero casualties.  Another crawler down, and a breeder at that.  He silently reassured himself that they were doing the right thing, stood up, and walked to the window.  He turned back to his partner.  "I wish I didn't."  And he let himself fall backward.

He chuckled to himself as the crowd below gasped and screamed at him falling.  He reveled in their shock all the way up to the moment right before he hit the ground, at which point he transformed into a cloud of black smoke and flew back up to retrieve Sharpshot.

Just after she had leapt from the ledge, a sharp pain in his left leg tore him away from the moment.

And he opened his eyes.

"Please silence your cell phones now," a soft, pleasant voice repeated more times than was necessary.

He turned and gave his sister a silent nod of appreciation.  She just smiled, reveling in the opportunity he had given her to kick him without consequence.

One hundred and two minutes later, he left the theater with his sister so that she could navigate to the restaurant they were all supposed to meet at.  As they climbed in the car, she asked the obligatory question after seeing a movie with someone.  "So, what did you think?"

"It was good," he responded with a bit less enthusiasm than he actually felt.  "The first one was better, though."

"Are you kidding me?"  She asked incredulously.  "The first one was impossible to follow!"

"You just aren't used to non-linear story telling."

She laughed at him.  "Nerd."

Long Lunch Lamentations

Holding the phone nervously, he waited for a response on the other side.  None came.

"Hello?"  He asked again.

Still no response.  But there was some breathing this time.  Not heavy or unnatural breathing, but enough to make it clear that there was definitely someone on the line with him.

"Look, I don't know if you can hear me, but . . ."

There was a click and the line went dead.

". . . but I'm pretty certain roasted checkers pieces would make terrible slippers."  He hung up the phone more disappointed than he had expected to be.  Apparently, it was back to boring old life again.

Maybe he would take a long lunch.

He got up and returned to the arduous task of collecting the papers he had so unceremoniously scattered across his office a few minutes before.  As he stood from picking some up, he felt blood rushing into his head.  He steadied himself against his desk.

And he closed his eyes.

"What do you mean you don't know where he is?"  His voice was trembling with anger.  "Your people were supposed to be keeping track of him!"

"That's not how we work, Qualm, and you know it," Captain Superior responded, stern but level-headed.  "We're not the League."

"No, but we have been kind enough to allow you to continue operating . . ."

"Allowed us?"  A bit less level-headed.

"Yes, Captain, allowed.  We have allowed you to continued your work."  He knew it was worthless to threaten Captain Superior, but even the leader of the Archers was susceptible to being thrown off his game by cheap insults.  Moreover, his psych eval from upstairs suggested a strong possibility of a huge inferiority complex.  Even his self-chosen name screamed over-compensation.  Maybe he could trick the hero into taking the blame for this one.  Maybe.

"Do you really want to turn this into a war between L.A.N.C.E. and the Archers?  Do you think that will end well for either side?"

Maybe not.

"This isn't about us versus you," except that it was.  "It's about the fact that we turned over a dangerous fugitive to you, because you assured us that your people could handle him."  Stay calm.  Keep him on the defensive.

Superior took a step forward and pressed a finger against Qualm's chest.  "Don't you talk to me about my failures.  We both know you wouldn't be here at all if Tristam wasn't breathing down your neck from upstairs.  This is as much your screw up as mine."

That wasn't the defensive.  New attack.

He looked at the Captain from over the top of his tinted glasses.  "How many of your people did he take with him?"

Superior turned his back on the agent and walked to the window.  "Most of the crawlers.  Shaman, Mr. Simon, and Nujalik all left with him willingly.  Malice is missing too."

"Have you heard from Sam?"  He tried his best to feign genuine concern.  It wasn't quite as convincing as he would have hoped, but thankfully it seemed to be enough that the Captain didn't notice.

"Arcano called in earlier.  Sam's safe in Axis Mundi."

Qualm silently mourned a lost bullet in this shootout.  "Thank God," he said in a tone that completely contradicted his legitimate feelings.

Superior snorted.  "Thank someone."

Questioning his faith.  This was a good sign.  He was back on the ropes with his arms down.  "Did Arcano have any leads?"

Superior sighed.  "I already told you, Qualm.  We don't know where he is.  Nash disappeared, ok?  There was a disagreement, he blew up a building, and ran off."

Qualm sighed.  "I just can't believe you didn't even send someone after him."

Something snapped in the captain and reeled around to stare Qualm down.  "I lost two good men in that pursuit.  Do you understand that?"  Anger.  Qualm was winning again.  "Daedalus and Astro Defender gave their lives trying to stop Nash.  I will not let you diminish their sacrifice by suggesting we didn't do anything.  We did all we could."

Perfect.  "And I don't think you want to diminish their last act by simply letting Nash go."  Superior's jaw tensed.  Qualm looked him dead in the eye.  "When you get word about him, let me know immediately."  And with that, he turned and walked away.

He managed to pin blame and responsibility on the Archers.  Tristam would be proud.

When he turned a corner and knew he was out of Captain Superior's eyesight, he leaned against a wall and let out a long, slow breath.

And he opened his eyes.

A long lunch was sounding better and better by the seconds.  He needed the change of scenery desperately, and he had hours to spare.  It wasn't like he would be accomplishing anything the rest of the day anyway at this rate.

Suddenly, the phone on his desk rang.  He checked the caller ID to see his boss's extension number.

Apparently, the long lunch would have to wait a bit longer.

Bzzzzzzt!

He picked up the folder and threw it across the room, scattering papers everywhere.  It was slightly satisfying, but not quite as much as punching someone in the face would be.

"I'm not a miracle worker," he muttered to himself.  "What do they expect me to do?"

"What was that?"  A coworker was shouting to him from the office next door.  Apparently, he could hear the slightest mutter, but not something that might socially obligate his assistance like the sound of a hundred papers flying through the air and the rest thudding into the wall between our offices.

"Nothing," he shouted back.

He was slowly rising from his desk to start gathering the papers back up when his leg started buzzing.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone to find a number staring back at him rather than a name.  It looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.  He made the assumption that if it was important, they would call back and slid the phone back into his pocket.

He reached down to pick up some of the papers only to be rewarded with a sharp pain in his lower back.  It was as though someone snuck up behind him, lodged a knife just above his hip, then stuffed the wound with a couple of marbles.

He decided not to question how he would even know what that felt like.

Hoping that it would eventually relieve the pain, he hobbled back to his chair and sat down.

Then he closed his eyes.

He slowly lifted his head out of his hands and looked across the desk.  "So how have we responded?"  Haze's voice was haggard, tired, and full of the darkest of emotions.

Tristam looked almost as tired as Haze felt.  His eyes were focused intently on the paper sitting in front of him on his desk.  "We can't take any chances right now.  We've already taken her into custody, but there really isn't much else we can do.  The situation is delicate.  Even as a crawler, she could still be part of L.A.N.C.E., but the fact that she lied to us in the first place changes things quite a bit."

"Can you blame her, though?"

"No," Tristam said matter-of-factly.  "Regardless of what our official policies claim, there is a distinct prejudice against crawlers.  Nexters are praised, crawlers are feared.  That's just the way it is right now.  That doesn't change what she did."

"But it does!"  There was more anger in his voice than he had intended.  "It changes everything!"  He realized he was not only standing, but hovering a few inches off the ground.  He returned to his seat.  "She couldn't help it."

"Haze, quit lying to yourself.  She knew full well what she was doing."

"What's happened to the Gefell?"

"We're integrating Nash into the team."

"It won't work," he responded quickly and flatly.

"Excuse me?"  More than a little offended.

"It won't work," he repeated.  "He won't take to League protocols.  He'll be with the Archers in a week."

"And you know this because . . ."

Haze looked at his boss with disdain and condescension.  "Because I can't take League protocols."

"Excuse me?"  More than a little nervous.

He quickly changed the subject.  "Where's Melanie being held?"

Tristam looked at him suspiciously, pondering whether or not it was alright to answer him.  "She's being held beneath the Lexington base."

"Who else knows about this?"

Tristam raised an eyebrow, guessing at where this was going.  "Haze, you can't.  You won't be allowed anywhere near her.  It would be the stupidest move you could make."

Haze scoffed.  "You think I'm an idiot?  I'm just trying to figure out which towns I'm gonna have to avoid."

"You can still go to Lexington, just not the base," Tristam responded with a touch of concern in his voice.  Concern not for Haze, but for the future of L.A.N.C.E.  He could finally see where the conversation was heading.

Haze smiled.  "If she's being held in Lexington, there'll be higher security there.  If I step foot within a hundred miles of that base, you people will know exactly where I am."

Tristam interrupted him.  "We know where you are anyway, you know.  There's a tracer in every League agent."

"I know," said Haze, raising a hand where smoke swirled before materializing into a small metallic device.  "And you can have that tracer back.  I quit."

"Haze, you . . ."

"No," said Haze calmly, rising from his seat.  "I'm done."

"You think the Archers are going to be any better?"

"No.  I don't.  That's why I'm not going there either."

Tristam was confused.  "But then . . ."

"When I say I'm done, I don't just mean with the League.  I mean with this life."  He turned to walk from the room, passing through the chair as though it wasn't there.  "I'm going to go try being normal for a change.  See how that goes.  You might consider the same, Tristam, before you find yourself trying to integrate your own Gefell into the League."

He felt an odd sort of peace pass over him.

And he opened his eyes.

A sudden thought struck him.

He pulled his phone back out of his pocket as he wheeled around to his computer to start digging through his old emails.

Maybe.  Just maybe.

The worthless professional conversations he had had by email over the past week had filled up his inbox rather nicely.  If the boss were to come by, it looked much better than a bunch of goofy forwards that had nothing to do with his job.  Unfortunately, when he was looking for one of those goofy forwards, the professional emails were less helpful and more obnoxious.  After much digging, he finally found the email he was looking for.

He compared the number on his computer screen to the number on his phone.

Yes!

He couldn't believe it.  The numbers matched!  What were the odds of this?

Suddenly, he felt his phone vibrating in his hand and looked down to see the now incredibly familiar number staring back at him.  He always said if it was important, they'd call back.

It must be important.

He tapped the screen nervously.

"Hello?"

Company Space

He huddled in the corner, holding his phone just inches from his face.  He was deeply enthralled in a video about immigration and really didn't feel like moving.

He briefly considered the possibility that what he was doing was wrong somehow, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized there was absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.  He had already signed out, locked up, and set the alarm.  What did it matter if he was still in the building?  No one was there to care and the only thing he was "stealing" was company space that would have otherwise been occupied by air.

Hopefully the air wouldn't file a complaint.

Then, as he looked around the office, he realized just how ridiculous he was being.  Everyone else had gone home over an hour ago.

He kicked his shoes off.

There was no reason not to be barefoot.

Suddenly, the video stopped for no apparent reason.  He tapped on the screen of his phone to bring up details of the video's progress to find that for whatever reason, the video hadn't just stopped playing, but stopped loading.  He let his head fall back against the wall behind him in frustration.

And he closed his eyes.

He slowly lifted his head out of his hands and looked across the desk.  "So how have we responded?"  Haze's voice was haggard, tired, and full of the darkest of emotions.

Qualm looked almost as tired as Haze felt.  His eyes were focused intently on the paper sitting in front of him on his desk.  "We can't take any chances right now.  We've already taken Sam, Diri, and Nujalik into custody, but they're only a tiny fraction of the crawlers we know of.  That doesn't even begin to cover the unauthorized ones still lose in the world."

"Qualm," Haze said sternly.  The new director finally raised his head to look at the nexter.  "I know you better than that.  You wouldn't have called me in here for a personal meeting just to debrief and give me a status update.  What's the mission?"

"Look, Haze, I know you said your days with the League were behind you, but-"

"But that didn't stop you from coming to my home and drag me to Lexington did it?"

"Haze, I'm sorry.  None of that was supposed to-"

"Save it.  Just give me the mission.  Lord knows I need it right now."

Qualm hesitated, then handed over the papers on his desk.  "I've managed to compile a list of suspected crawlers.  I need you to-"

"Really?"  Haze was bitter and spiteful.  "You've got me doing interviews?"

"No," said a female voice behind him.  He instinctively dematerialized just enough to turn, stand, and face the intruder.  She stepped out of the shadows of the corner until Haze could see a familiar face.  "There's no time for interviews."  Sharpshot stood just over five feet tall, but had one of the most intimidating presences of any nexter Haze had ever met.  Her long, blonde hair fell over one of her eyes and an oversized rifle rested on her hip.  Several more weapons in various shapes and sizes awaited her commands in the pockets of her cargo pants, each pocket designed specifically for the weapon it held.

Haze turned back to Qualm.  "Are you saying-?"

"I want the two of you to eliminate the crawler threat at any cost."

Haze's eyes were burning with a flood of emotions.  He wasn't sure if he was excited about the opportunity for such swift action, thirsting for the blood of vengeance, or concerned by Qualm's willingness to potentially kill civilians.

"Don't tell me you don't want in on this," Sharpshot said teasingly.

"Haze, listen," said Qualm compassionately.  "I understand if you don't want to do this.  We can always-"

"I'm in."

Qualm was taken aback.  Sharpshot smirked.

Haze nodded at his new partner, then at his new boss, grasped the papers in his hand even tighter, and dematerialized.  He let his voice echo into the room from all around them.  "I'll see you enzone."  He let himself fade out, but waited in the corners of the room to listen in.

"That went well," Sharpshot said smoothly.  "You played your part like a pro."

Qualm dropped heavily into his chair and ran his fingers through his hair.  "I wasn't sure he would buy it.  He normally picks up on those kinds of plays."

Haze smiled to himself.  He had seen through the play, but it wouldn't have mattered either way.  He didn't need to be tricked into this assignment.  He would have done it just for the chance at some vengeance.  The fact that it was government-sanctioned and that he was getting paid was just icing on an already delicious cake.

As he passed through the walls of the room, a sudden male voice caught him off guard.

He opened his eyes.

Relief filled him as he realized the video had started up again.  Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped again.  His head thudded against the wall again.  Begrudgingly, he reached over, grabbed his shoes, and slowly began to put them back on.

Apparently, the wifi of home beckoned louder than his desperate desire for something new.

Stupid metal building.

FWD: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRLS?

Scrolling through his email for what felt like the hundredth time that day, one subject line stuck out at him:

FWD: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRLS?

Based solely on the glaring grammatical error in the subject line, he assumed there was some kind of virus attached to the email, but he didn't really care.  It's not like it was his computer.  If something went wrong, it was IT's problem.  Not his.

Click.

His screen was quickly filled with the image of a green-eyed brunette that looked oddly familiar.  Above the picture, a headline echoed the grammar-free subject line of the email:  HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRLS?  He felt he had probably seen "this girls" somewhere before, but he couldn't pin it down.  He scrolled past the picture to find out if there was something he was supposed to do if he had seen her.

A ringing pulled him away from his computer.  The phone was demanding his attention.

He hated the phone.

He closed his eyes.

Slowly, resentfully, he opened his eyes and picked up the phone.  "Hello?"

"Is that really how you're supposed to answer an official line?"  The female voice was playful, sweet and becoming more familiar everyday.  He let a smile cross his lips.

"Probably not," he said casually, "but it'll teach them to put me on phone duty.  Never.  Again."

"When do you get off?"

"Gardyloo."

"Shut up!  You know what I mean."  He could practically hear her grinning.

"Right now if I can swing it right."

"Gardyloo," she said enthusiastically.

He chuckled to himself.  He liked this one.  "Not bad, rookie.  Where are you?"

"Lexington."

"Be there in a few."

"You better be," she teased, hanging up the phone.

He hung up his receiver and quickly scanned the room to see who else was on duty.  On the far side of the room, he saw his mark and zoomed in.

"Hey, Qualm!"  He waved the agent over to his desk.

"What is it, Haze?"

"Something's come up," he said quickly, professionally (silently adding 'gardyloo' to the end of his sentence), "and I need to get to Lexington.  Can you cover for me?"  He gestured toward the phone.  "I'm the only one here who can get there fast enough."  It was the truth . . . more or less.

Qualm looked hesitantly at the phone, weighing the scales of protocol vs. purpose.  "Alright.  But make it quick."

"I'll do my best," he said with a grin, fading into a cloud of black smoke.

Qualm had become almost too easy to manipulate ever since the split.  Back when he was just a liaison to the Archers, he had always seemed so mysterious and calculating, but now he was just another stiff following orders.  It was almost as if his other persona was just a well-calculated order from somewhere higher up.  Or maybe he just hadn't realized back then what he was getting himself into.

The flight to the Lexington base took hardly no time at all.  He circled around inside the base a few times, staying as translucent as possible so he could have some time to just look at her.  Melanie Menteur was absolutely stunning.  Her short brunette hair gave her a young, playful look and framed her face perfectly to draw attention to her shining green eyes.  Not that they needed help drawing attention to themselves.  They could almost literally light up a room and the longer he looked at them, the brighter they seemed to get.  She was sitting in one of the soft lobby chairs with her long, toned legs crossed and her hands placed delicately on the fringe of her uniform's pink skirt.

He caught himself grinning . . . or at least the vaporic equivalent of grinning.

He materialized next to her in the chair next to her.

Where others would have never even realized he had appeared until he let them, she noticed right away.  She hopped out of her seat excitedly and floated to the arm of his chair where she perched delicately, immediately locking lips with him.

He didn't question it or worry about whether someone was watching.  He just went with it.  It felt natural.  Right.  He felt her hand running through his hair and relished it until a sudden, sharp, and very painful pinch on the back of his neck snapped him out of it and forced him to pull away from her.  She looked at him with a playful sort of hunger and concern.

"I'm sorry," she said sheepishly.  "Guess I got a little excited."

He reached back and felt the spot on his neck where the pain had originated.  Oddly, that spot wasn't quite as solid as the rest of him was.  (Gardyloo.)

He leapt up from the chair and turned around to find a pillar of white smoke rising from behind the chair.  It formed into a large, vaguely humanoid shape.  Flames erupted along what could be described as its arms and it seemed to flex at their arrival.

Not her.  She couldn't be one.  Why her?

A high pitched, repeating tone seemed to squeal from somewhere near the smoke creature.  It continued, getting louder and louder, persistently louder and louder until . . .

He opened his eyes.

He picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi!  I'm calling on behalf of Providence Bank.  Your debit card has been deactivated.  Please enter your sixteen-digit card number . . . "  Nice try, faceless thieves.

"I like turtles," he said loudly, imitating the zombie he so often felt he was, and hung up the phone.

He turned back to the girl's face on his computer to read the words under the picture.  He was oddly interested in what he was supposed to do now that he was pretty sure he had seen "this girls".  The font was significantly smaller than the header had been, and caught him completely off-guard.

If you have, please call this number and tell her to break up with her boyfriend.  I'm her mother, I hate him and she won't listen to me.  Maybe she'll listen to you!

There was a number listed below.

He laughed, seriously considered calling the number, just to see what happened, then decided against it.  Instead, he simply forwarded the email to a small list of people he thought would appreciate it.

He wasn't quite ready for that much excitement.

Maybe someone else was.